Italy. She could flee to Italy. Buy a villa. Buy a handsome Italian or two…
No, she couldn’t escape to Italy with Tom. Not now. Not yet. She doubted she’d make it to the coast alive. She had to go to Chartrand’s orgy first. He would be there. As would Brude, Wembly, and Montberry…
Tom stretched out on the side of her bed, watching her with his head-of-the-family arrogance, his booted feet dirtying her expensive ivory counterpane.
“How much do you want?” Lydia asked on a sigh.
“Madam is not in.”
The breeze tugged at the hood of Venetia’s cloak. She caught hold of it to keep it in place, shadowing her face. Not in? She must speak to Lydia Harcourt. She stuck her foot on the threshold so the door could not be shut. “When will she return?” she demanded.
“Not today.” The housekeeper frowned at her foot.
“Then when?” Her father was now lying in sickbed. She needed to reassure him that Lydia Harcourt was taken care of. What if he had another attack of his heart from the worry?
Beneath her clean, starched cap, the servant’s eyes narrowed. “I cannot say.”
“Mrs. Harcourt sent me a letter requesting my prompt response.” Venetia tried to infuse haughtiness in her words but, standing on the steps at an unfashionable hour with her cloak’s hood pulled low to hide her face, she knew the servant wouldn’t find her intimidating. The servant would know she had secrets to hide.
“Madam has left for a stay in the country. She will not return before a week hence.”
An Incognita leaving London at the beginning of the Season? “Where has she gone?”
“A house party.” Raw greed gleamed in the housekeeper’s dark eyes. “Now, madam, if you have a package or a letter ye wish to leave for my mistress—”
And have her pluck a few notes from the stack that Lydia Harcourt expected to receive? Or perhaps take the lot and run off? She wasn’t that naïve.
She bit her lip. The physician had assured her Rodesson would recover. But he had looked so frail last night…and anxiety over this wouldn’t help. “I would prefer to deliver my…gift to Mrs. Harcourt directly,” she said. “Where is she staying?”
“I’ve been instructed not to say. Ye’ll have to come back when she’s returned.”
The housekeeper pushed hard on the door. Venetia admitted defeat and drew her foot back. The door snapped shut in her face.
She trudged down the steps. She worked so hard to ensure her servants didn’t know about her secret life. But Mrs. Harcourt was careless. The housekeeper obviously knew what sort of business she was here to transact. The hood, the veil, the face paint had hidden her appearance at least. But why would Mrs. Harcourt race off without waiting to get her money?
She stomped down the last two steps. She hated this. Hated to be at the mercy of this woman.
She paused at the stairs that led down to the servants’ entrance, cast in shadow. An idea dawned. Could she bribe another servant to tell her where Mrs. Harcourt was? She nipped down the steps and raised her fist to knock—
“I might be wearing drawers and I might not, milord!”
Startled, Venetia glanced up. A couple stood at the top of the steps. The girl, blessed with golden ringlets, coyly stroked the chest of a fine gentleman.
“I knew the instant I set on eyes on you whether you were or not, strumpet,” the gentleman returned and he boldly cupped the swell of the woman’s breast beneath her poppy-red pelisse in full view of Compton Street.
“Strumpet!” Giggling, the young woman slapped the man’s broad chest with a dainty reticule. “Miss Harcourt to you, sir.”
Was this giggling twit was her blackmailer? Some courtesans merely used the title ‘Mrs.’ to appear respectable to their neighbors. Just as her mother had pretended to be a widow.
“You’ve no idea what is beneath me dress, milord,” the girl challenged.
Venetia chewed her lip. Should she walk back up and announce herself? The girl was silly and young, and hardly seemed capable of creating a clever scheme of blackmail.
“What if I were to toss your skirts right now to find out, sweet strumpet?”
His lordship was tall, alluringly dark, and radiating dangerous sensuality, just like Lord Trent. This silly flirtatiousness reminded her of her kiss with Trent. Of the thrill of bandying naughty words…
A strange wistfulness blossomed in her heart—jades could be bold and flirtatious and have fun. She’d spent a lifetime in Maidenswode being rigidly correct lest someone suspect the truth—that her mother wasn’t a respectable widow.
The gentleman inched up the girl’s skirts.
“Swansborough!” the girl cried. This time she slapped his hands.
Laughing he let her skirts drop. “And where is your sister, angel? Why has the lovely Lydia left London?”
Venetia stood absolutely still.
“She went to a dull house party. She was ever so…tedious, going on about how she would be spending a week at Lord…Oh, Lord Chartrand’s estate. Why should anyone wish to rusticate in the country? At least I shall be able to use her theatre box.”
Lord Swansborough gave a throaty laugh. “Angel, Lord Chartrand’s house party is the most wicked orgy of the Season.”
“My sister has gone to an orgy? How utterly scandalous.”
“Indeed. I just might retrieve my invitation and go myself.”
An orgy. Venetia’s jaw dropped. How the devil could she go to an orgy to speak to a courtesan? But she had to! Rodesson could not travel. Once again, it was up to her.
Venetia saw the girl’s eyes widen to the size of sovereigns. Even from several feet away she could read the young ladybird’s sudden desperation. “But I want you to take me to the theatre, my lord. You promised it would be a most rewarding—”
A squeak escaped Venetia’s lips. Men really did indulge in sexual activities in the theatre! Then she stayed motionless, her heart thudding. Had that noise given her away?
But the girl and Lord Swansborough swept up the stairs, oblivious to her hiding place in the shadows. Venetia breathed out in happy relief. Lord Swansborough had given her a brilliant idea. She knew exactly how she could go to an orgy.
Lord Trent. No doubt he would be attending. It made perfect sense. He was the only rake she knew in London. She could ask him to take her.
CHAPTER THREE
Venetia darted along the path that wound through Hyde Park. In the afternoon, the ton would flock here. A stroll in the park was de rigueur in the Season for the haute volée. But in the morning, gentlemen rode the paths. Handsome, sleekly muscled gentlemen on sleekly muscled mounts.
Even on this gloomy day, the panting of lathered horses filled the air. Bold, deep-voiced shouts rose from the men racing on the track—calls of victory, curses of defeat.
A massive black horse thundered up the Row, black mane flying, hooves throwing up sand. Horse and rider charged as one, streaking up the track toward her. Exultant power showed in the rider’s aristocratic face.
She tipped her hood back enough to view him.
It was the Earl of Trent and he rode like a god. Astride that giant coal-black gelding, he rose up, his powerful thighs clamping the horse’s body. Beneath his hat, his raven hair streamed back. Pure ecstasy gleamed in his eyes. Sweat shone on his high cheekbones.
She was mesmerized.
At